Medical Trauma and the Grief No One Talks About
Today, I Didn’t Get the News I Was Hoping For
Today was a tough one. The kind of day where you feel like the air has been sucked out of the room.
I’ve often joked that I’m a unicorn, a rare medical case and laughed it off. But today, I’m not laughing. Today, I feel raw, beaten down and numb.
The only way I can describe it is grief. Not the grief you feel when someone close to you passes away, I know that pain too, but this is different. This is the grief of losing the life you thought you’d have. The future you planned. The version of you that once existed.
I was told there are no surgeons in WA who can help me. The surgery I need to remove my mesh is too complex and no one here has the experience. People keep saying, “Well, at least that’s progress.” But to me, it doesn’t feel like progress. It feels like I’m stuck in the same awful medical bubble, spinning with no end in sight.
It’s not the first time I’ve felt this kind of grief. The first was when I was diagnosed and told I might not be able to have children. Then again, when my treatment plan changed and instead of four rounds of chemo after surgery, I was told I’d need sixteen. I remember Mum and Dad taking me to see Hitch (a funny movie with Will Smith). I laughed. I felt a flicker of light. But as soon as we left the cinema, I broke down. I couldn’t stop crying. It was grief again. And not the kind of crying that makes you feel better when you let it out, take a deep breath afterward, and feel some kind of release. This is different. This kind is heavier. It lingers. The tears don’t take away the pain. It’s a deep ache that feels like it can’t be released, no matter how much you cry.
There’s something uniquely heartbreaking about having no clear path forward. When your days revolve around appointments, scans and painkillers. When you can’t plan for fun or think about the future without it hurting even more. When you wonder, Will I ever travel again? Work again? Do yoga again?
Right now, I live in regional WA, and if I needed help today, there is no one locally who could help me. That’s terrifying. That’s isolating. That’s lonely.
I know these thoughts aren’t good for me. I’ve done a lot of mental health work, mindfulness, meditation and courses. I know how the brain works. But none of it touches this kind of despair. It’s too deep. Too heavy. It feeds on itself. It makes me feel guilty that my kids don’t get the Mum they deserve. That they see me in pain. And that breaks me even more.
I feel like there are two versions of myself while in this state:
The one who has completely let go, no energy left to care, which weirdly feels almost peaceful.
And the one who is completely triggered, where barking dogs, bad drivers, even a cockroach can send me over the edge.
Being around me right now? It’s not easy. I get that. But please, don’t take it personally if I ask for space or if I’m not myself. I’m just trying to get through.
So how do we get through?
I think it takes time. And honesty. And letting go of the expectation that we need to be “okay” all the time. Right now, I can’t work. I’ve spent so much of my life building my business and chasing goals and now, I can’t do the things I love. That’s another loss. Another layer of grief.
When you feel this low, sometimes you just have to sit in it. Cry, scream, break plates or write. Whatever helps you process it. It’s part of acceptance, painful, ugly, messy acceptance.
I know that my life is forever changed again. And I also know this: when you go through big trauma, your perspective shifts. You see things others don’t. Some of it is beautiful. Some of it is heartbreaking.
Even with all my learning and growth, it doesn’t make me immune to this pain. It still wrecks me. It still feels unfair. But the only way out is through and as much as it sucks, that’s the truth.
If you’re reading this, I hope it helps you feel a little less alone. Writing this helps me identify my emotions and understand them. And I think we need to talk more about the emotional impact of medical trauma. Because we are more than just numbers. We’re human beings with dreams, fears, grief and hope.
I had so much pinned on today’s appointment. I truly thought this would be the turning point, that I’d finally get the help I deserve. That maybe, just maybe, I’d get an end date to all of this. But instead, I’m still in it. I still have a way to go. And while that’s hard to accept right now, I know this isn’t the end of my story. It’s just another chapter and I’ll keep turning the pages, even if today, they’re soaked in tears.